The Little Yellow Gadd
There’s a cross-eyed mad dictator by the shores of Tripoli
With the last remaining goons who take his pay,
Where new graves are dug for people who just wanted to be free,
And Tony Blair for ever looks away.
He was known as Mad Gaddaafi by the sergeants in the Naafi
Though he called himself a Colonel and a sage
But for all his planes and tanks, they despised him in the ranks,
As they lived through forty years of fear and rage.
In a desert tented throne he lived a life alone
With creatures to obey his every whim.
To the world outside he stank, for all his money in the bank –
Till Tony Blair arrived to smile at him.
Beneath the desert sun their hearts both beat as one.
They washed away their past with cups of tea.
As he whispered soothing lies the madman locked his eyes:
And Tony Blair saw what he chose to see.
He left serene and sunny, with gifts of oil and money,
And thought himself a statesman of renown.
But the people tossed a hammer at the tyrant named Muammar
And they drove him out of every Libyan town.
And at last they made him hunker and cower in his bunker,
The final shrivelled kingdom of the mad.
Begging aid from Tony Blair, as his people now prepare
To take vengeance on their little yellow Gadd.
For comparison, the original popular recitation by J Milton Hayes, 1884-1940
There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
He was known as “Mad Carew” by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.
On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.
He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel’s daughter watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying “That’s from Mad Carew,”
And she found the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn’t take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he’d chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro’ the gloom.
His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp’ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
‘Twas the “Vengeance of the Little Yellow God.”
There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
— J Milton Hayes
